No Better Place
by Stephane Richer
Summary: ::Alex/Araki:: Like water under bridges, you slowly pass me by, til you sail between the rooftops and the sky.


No Better Place

Disclaimer: I don't own Fountains of Wayne's "No Better Place" or Fujimaki Tadatoshi's _Kuroko no Basuke_.

* * *

They are drawn to one another, simply magnetic. Masako is neat and impeccably dressed; Alex is sloppy and fashion-challenged (to put it kindly). Masako plays basketball with her instincts; Alex plays with style and finesse. Masako is quiet; Alex is loud.

They're both strangers to Los Angeles, one of them a senior transfer student and one of them a freshman. They're both from far away, Masako from Tokyo and Alex from New York. And they both love basketball. Even their teammates can't keep up with their endless basketball conversations. Somehow, they seem to watch every pro and college game at once while devoting countless hours to improving themselves. They're always on the same page, especially during games. They cut down opposing defenses effortlessly with smooth passes and blocks and somehow they're always open even when they're triple-teamed.

They go to parties together, stick by one another because their teammates don't know what to make of them but want to be friendly and inclusive, so they get invited to parties. Drinking and talking with the girls is okay, and they all get closer, but they all end up dancing or finding boys to hook up with or passed out on the floor, and Masako needs air so she and Alex end up on the porches of frat houses and balconies of apartments and the smog of Los Angeles isn't much better than the marijuana-coated air of the party, but it's cooler and quieter and they sip their cheap beers in silence and stand, Alex's arm draped over the railing or on her knees. Masako's face is red and she's smiling a goofy grin, which is weird because she's always so stoic, and she slips her hand inside of Alex's and leans on her, and Alex stares and flicks the tab on her beer can because she can't think of what to say without disturbing the moment.

They win the championship, grinning like their cheeks are going to burst open, hoisting the trophy together. The photo makes the front page of the school newspaper, and Masako cuts it out carefully. But that's much later, because after the photo, and after the phone calls in other languages to their parents far away, and after they've changed into their street clothes and showered, Masako grabs Alex's face and kisses her, hard and strong and deep, and it's not a stretch for Alex to imagine that she was once a delinquent (she's claimed such several times when they're all getting tipsy together and pre-gaming a party. The other girls laugh and Alex is perplexed because that's not _her_ Masako; her Masako is polite and quiet and vicious on the courts and can be somewhat callous but generally sticks to the rulebook) because she breaks Alex down within five seconds with her tongue. Her basketball game is perfectly finessed but this is rough and Alex can't predict it at all (so does that make her the opponent?) but she kisses back and her hands go up Masako's shirt and ruin the ironing but she doesn't care. The buttons pop off and Alex is too overeager and nearly rips Masako's lacy bra off, too, but what the hell. They're too into one another's bodies to worry about where their clothes are and what conditions they're in.

Masako slides a finger, two, three, inside Alex and her fingers are even defter here than they are in basketball; it's like she's twirling several on her finger at once she's moving so fast and Alex is seeing stars again and again. She's got way too much stamina and adrenaline and has no idea what she's doing; she's never been with a guy, let alone another woman, let alone this woman—but Masako guides her, patient, shows her what turns her on. Masako's body is smaller and firmer than Alex, though Alex is toned and muscular. Masako is more lithe, does not fall prey to potato chips the way Alex does. Her stomach is taut and her abs are so defined, the creases between them are like folded paper. Alex licks along every crease, delighting in the undignified squeaks she never thought Masako could utter. Masako's hands are everywhere, now, thighs and ears and the back of her neck and scraping over her shoulders and clawing into Alex's back as she moves her tongue along Masako's thigh, up and up, slower and slower and Masako's already throbbing and thrashing and shaking.

They move in together the next month, electing not to go home for the summer. Masako's got a job as a public school teacher, and she's waiting a year to apply to local schools to get her master's. Alex continues with school and basketball, but she plays one-on-one with Masako almost every day and honestly no matter what conditioning or training or drills she does, this is what makes her a better player. They love each other, but their competition is still vicious and unforgiving. Neither of them ever wants to lose.

There are no more championships, only near-misses, with Alex pushing the team as far as she can carrying everyone else on her back until she almost collapses. Other programs recruit more aggressively, have stabilized coaching situations and more scholarships and better training regimens. One sportswriter, desperately searching for comparisons almost fifteen years after Alex's senior season, happens upon a video of this women's NCAA championship game, where Alex passes and steals and shoots and fights off three and four defenders at once and has found the perfect comparison for an NBA player who's about to walk away from his hometown team because he cannot possibly carry them to a championship like this, although he has made a mighty effort.

The WNBA is a new thing, and Alex is excited to be drafted, even though the pay is not nearly as much as she could be making with her economics degree, because she can play basketball against the best female players in the world. Except for Masako, who point-blank refuses because her playing days are behind her and that's final. She grows distant, seems unsatisfied. She refutes Alex's claims that it's because she wants to play professionally, too. It's not because she misses Alex when she's away, although she does wish Alex could be closer to her.

Masako is homesick.

The particularly Los Angeles dizzying smog and bright lights and traffic jams will do for now, but she can't live on love and a working salary forever. She and Alex talk it over one night, after Alex's season is over and they've been together but unhappy (because when Masako is unhappy, Alex can't be happy) for more than a few weeks. She misses Tokyo; she misses speaking Japanese; she misses her family; she misses a specific style of living that Alex can't provide for her here.

She leaves for Tokyo before the new semester at her school starts. She's got a new job somewhere out there. She does not promise to visit; Alex knows she will not. They don't even hug goodbye because Masako does not trust herself not to reconsider at the last minute. Alex makes it to the parking lot before she starts to cry, and has to wait an hour before her eyes are clear enough to drive home.

In the beginning, it hurts all the time and Alex sees her everywhere, long black hair blowing in the breeze but it's just some random person, or a stylish woman walking away in a suit but she's way too short, or a reflection of brown eyes in the window but it's nothing. She hears her name on the wind. She's playing basketball alone, and a phantom hand blocks her shot.

She dates other women, casually. They never want anything serious, though, and the feeling is mutual. Alex just can't bring herself to love them.

Then, at a routine checkup she gets the devastating news about her eyes. There is no one to rub circles on her back. She is released from her contract. There is now no one at all she can play basketball with, until she discovers street ball. She throws away her style, starts anew. She meets tons of kids, teaches them everything she knows (most importantly, to love basketball). She works odd jobs to make ends meet, and can't leave the old apartment. She rationalizes the decision to stay with the low rent (even paying all of it, it's a bargain) and that she doesn't want to deal with the hassle of moving.

She still holds out a ridiculous hope that at some point she'll return. Maybe in twenty years, maybe in forty, maybe when they're too old and can barely see and hear and touch through the wrinkles, but that will be enough.

* * *

The asphalt court is deserted. Everyone in the area who likes basketball is at the tournament; no one else would play here to begin with. Masako dribbles the ball, hard, short shoves of her hand. She's focused on the way it comes back into her hand, the motion. She's too preoccupied with the way her team lost to notice anyone else right now, so it's too easy for Alex to come up and steal the ball out from under her hands.

She smirks at Masako, dribbling the ball between her legs and Masako lunges, and they're off. They're running and jumping in heels but it doesn't matter; they don't fuck up their ankles or even jump any lower than they would be able to in the best of sneakers. It's the best basketball that either of them has played in years, hands-down.

But they're not as young as they once were; they grow tired much more easily and too soon they're panting and sweating through their clothes, and Alex has never seen Masako so undignified. There are crow's feet around her eyes, now, and too many freckles on her hands. But Alex needs to hold those hands again, and it's been so long but still. The feelings hit her, bludgeon her head from the inside out because they've never gone away she's just learned to hide them. And their eyes meet, searching each other for similarities and differences and whether their faces will still fit together the way their hands do.

There's only one way to find out.


End file.
